


No Captions

by orphan_account



Series: Terrible and True [1]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 17:08:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2158560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don't need them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Captions

Saturday, December 18, 1999

It takes seven hours—seven very long, bumpy, cramped, and silent hours—to get to Williston from Fargo. As soon as the ramshackle sedan putters to a halt on a mostly-empty side street, Mr. Numbers and Mr. Wrench gratefully trade the warmth of the car’s interior for the bracing cold, keenly exiting the vehicle to stretch their legs and begin their first assignment together.

The task at hand isn’t a difficult one, and it’s something Numbers has become very accustomed to through his years with Fargo: find the guy, get information from the guy, kill the guy. The pattern makes for easy work and easier money if he’s by himself, though the whole “new partner” thing might complicate matters instead of improve them. Not because of Wrench’s deafness, no, that’s not it at all; the issue mostly lies with Numbers preferring to work alone.

As they set off he glances to Wrench, whose seemingly permanent scowl compromises his otherwise boyish features. If he lightened up, ditched that hideous old black fringe jacket and got a damn haircut maybe he wouldn’t look years older than he really was, but Numbers supposes that maybe that’s the point. Though, Wrench might just have fucking terrible taste.

Wrench grabs the lapel of his coat and shakes it out, sending all the frayed strands into turmoil. He squints against the combined brilliance of the sun and snow, debating whether he’s currently more annoyed that Numbers hasn’t said much to him, regardless of the fact both of them possess the skills to communicate with each other, or if it bothers him more that he cares. It’s cruelly ironic, in his opinion, that there’s only one other person from the Fargo syndicate who knows how to sign and that person has zero fucking interest in striking up a non-work-related conversation with him.

Numbers adjusts his shades, the tinted lenses not doing much to dull the harsh brightness of the clear sky above, and motions to the right as they approach an intersection. _“This way.”_

After a few minutes of ambling down a main street lined with old shops, Numbers spies a flurry of gestures out of the corner of his eye. The last-minute holiday shoppers by the toy store stare openly at Wrench, the fringe of that awful jacket swaying wildly as he rambles. With a roll of his eyes he turns his head to Wrench, wondering what could have him so goddamn chatty all of the sudden.

_“...and then there’s all these explosions and a bunch of skyscrapers collapse, and he holds hands with that weird broad. That's it! The end, roll credits! Didn't make any fucking sense.”_

Numbers stops dead in his tracks, and the back of his gloved hand meets Wrench’s chest in a muffled _thump_.

Wrench halts too, glowering down in return from behind his overgrown bangs. Excuse him all to hell for trying to make conversation. After taking in Numbers’ persistent half-gawk half-glare for a few beats he points at the movie theater across the street.

His eyes incredulously follow the invisible line extending from Wrench's index finger to the sign displaying ‘ _Fight Club_ ’ before returning home to his partner’s. _"What didn’t make sense about that movie?”_ Numbers wants to keep a cool head, though his annoyance with everything already threatens to inflict itself upon anyone and everyone after his drive across the state with a complete stranger in what might possibly be the shittiest car Fargo could wrangle up for them.

 _“A lot of things!”_ Wrench’s hands exclaim, and both men resume their stroll. _“Am I really supposed to believe that all those men knew that one guy was really two people and didn’t say anything?”_

_“He wasn’t two people, those two people were just one guy.”_

_“That’s the same thing,”_ he protests, nostrils flaring out.

Deciding to tackle this from a different angle, Numbers asks, _“Was it captioned?”_ When Wrench doesn’t confirm or deny the inquiry he reiterates, breaking it down. _“The movie. When you saw it. Was it captioned or not?”_

Wrench’s hands fly up and out, palms facing the sky. _“I can follow movies without captions. I watched_ ‘Rushmore’ _without captions. I don’t need them.”_

 _“Clearly you do,”_ Numbers signs, his instinct to win every argument championing his mounting impatience with the man, _“because the movie’s crystal fucking clear. It’s about identity. Masculinity and violence and rebellion.”_

They reach another intersection, and Numbers pounds the side of his fist against the crosswalk button. Watching Numbers, Wrench leans against the pole, his arms crossed. He’s entertained by his partner’s agitation, and dangerously close to smiling. Waving Numbers on, he prays that not a single trace of a smirk crosses his lips.

 _“Look: That movie’s about group mentality. Ok? That’s all. It shows how fucked up and violent we—men—are.”_ He jabs the button again, glares out at the passing cars that block their path. It just had to be fucking rush hour.

Wrench quirks an eyebrow. _“You remember what you do, right?”_

 _“Whatever,”_ Numbers scoffs, refusing to let that little fact undermine his explanation. The traffic clears, the stick figure representing a pedestrian finally illuminates, and they hustle across the street. _“That doesn’t change what the film’s saying.”_

Wrench, unable to help himself, prods him further. _“That’s your interpretation,”_ he says, jerking his shoulders. _“Maybe it was about love. Or communism.”_

_“How did you get communism out of that movie?”_

Unable to contain the grin that’s been fighting to break free, Wrench shakes his head. _“Maybe you should have been a critic.”_ He brushes his curly bangs from his eyes. _“I’m sensing a lot of potential in you. Have you thought about changing careers?”_

“Oh, fuck you,” Numbers mutters. He pointedly focuses on the path in front of him instead of his smirking companion, who, as it turns out, easily looks about five years younger with that dopey smile plastered on his face.

Several minutes free from any additional interaction later, they turn onto a relatively quiet 5th Street and stop in front of a jewelry store. The sign above the place reads ‘Lovera Jewelers’ in large, bolded, and considerably chipped red print.

Inside the otherwise empty shop a slim, greasy-looking man with a poorly-executed comb over and two pinky rings hunches over the glass counter, inspecting a ruby and then a topaz under an oversized magnifying glass. That’s their mark, Antonio Lovera: gambling addict, debtor, and dead man walking extraordinaire. And there’s no doubt about it to Numbers that he’s _the_ guy; Lovera's unwittingly doing his pursuers a favor and wearing the same tacky gold vest from the picture in his file.

If Mr. Lovera senses anyone watching him, he doesn't show it, and doesn't look up from his gems except to wipe sweat from his forehead with his white and purple striped shirt sleeve before delving back into his work, or whatever the hell he’s doing.

Wrench glares through the dingy window pane at the poorly-dressed idiot before them. This time it's him that smacks Numbers on the chest as they resume their walk down the block. _"That’s the guy."_

 _"No shit,"_ Numbers says before re-adjusting his scarf. _“Let’s get to it.”_


End file.
